God Only Knows What We’d Be Without Him

In Memory of Brian Wilson
(June 20, 1942 – June 11, 2025)

The ocean sang through him,

not in waves, but in harmony—

surfboards and sun-kissed dreams

woven with quiet ache.

A genius too tender for the world,

he tuned sorrow into symphony,

built cathedrals from sand

and let falsettos rise

like prayers with no name.

In a room not built for daylight,

he heard angels where others heard static—

echoes of childhood,

of California

before the fall.

They called him mad,

but madness is just music

you haven’t learned to hum.

And Brian—

he hummed heaven.

He gave us youth in stereo,

grief in major keys,

fragile boys who cried through choruses,

and laughter that knew

the price of silence.

He didn’t always walk the shore,

sometimes he drifted

far from land.

But even there,

he left melodies in bottles,

washed up

in every note we now understand.

The Beach Boys wore stripes,

but he wore scars—

each one a staff line

etched across his heart.

Now the studio is quiet.

The Pet Sounds

rest.

But listen:

somewhere a refrain begins again,

soft as the hush before dawn.

And we sing,

because he showed us how:

how to hurt,

how to hope,

how to harmonize

with the breaking.

God only knows

what we’d be without him.

But thank God, through his music,

we never have to.